


Absence (Maybe In Distance, Never In Heart)

by c3mf



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Arthur is a wonderful human being, Douglas is a good dad, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, and really knows what he's talking about if you just listen, even if his daughter doesn't know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c3mf/pseuds/c3mf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being grown-up means doing what you have to even when you don't want to and it's not always fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence (Maybe In Distance, Never In Heart)

It happens often enough now that when Dad says he has to work, Miranda simply gathers her things and bundles herself into the car without a fuss. The trips are always short ones, none that would keep him overnight--that had only happened once and Dad had shouted on the phone for what felt like hours, until Carolyn finally relented. 

Even still, Dad insists on reassuring her as he drives. “You’ll have fun,” he promises, but she can always tell when he forces a smile, especially if it’s one for her. “You won’t even miss me.”

She stares out of the window and hums. She doesn’t bother telling him it doesn’t matter how short the trip, she always misses him anyway.

Dad has only just turned into the drive, gravel still crunching under the tyres, but Miranda grabs her things and jumps out, making a beeline for the front door, even as Dad shouts after her. Arthur’s already waiting for her, standing just inside the open door wearing sleep trousers and the polar bear hoodie she got him for his birthday the year before. 

“Morning,” he says. “Everything okay?”

Instead of answering, she brushes past him and heads straight into the sitting room, and all but throws herself onto the sofa. Snoopadoop lifts her head from her bed in the corner, assesses the situation, then immediately goes back to sleep. The telly is on and the sound of the morning news nearly drowns out the thump of Dad’s shoes in the hall. She curls herself into the sofa cushions, presses her face against the armrest, and fixes her eyes on the telly--something about the London Stock Exchange and the current decline of the Euro. It’s something Dad would find important, but she doesn’t care for in the least.

Just like work.

“Are you going to be an expert on economic reform now?” Dad teases behind her.

She says nothing and sinks further into the cushions.

“I know you’re not watching that,” he says.

“It’s interesting,” she lies, even though they both know it’s the exact opposite.

For a long time neither of them say a word and the chatter of the newscaster rushes in to fill up the silence. Finally, Dad says, “I won’t be long. Back before lunchtime, I should think.” His voice is light and airy and forced just like the smile he gave her in the car. Another pause, then Dad just sighs, and leans over the back of the sofa to kiss the top of her head. 

“Be good,” he whispers into her hair.

She is _always_ good, isn’t she? She always does as she's told, is always polite and never once protests when Dad up and leaves when he is supposed to be spending time with her, not flying some stupid plane somewhere miles and miles away. If anyone needs to be told to be good, it isn’t her.

“You’re right,” she tells him as she hears him leave. The sharp sound of her voice makes her bones ache, like her skin is too tight to hold them anymore. “I won’t even miss you.”

There’s another sort of broken silence and she knows Dad is standing at the threshold to the sitting room. But he doesn’t argue with her, doesn’t scold her for being sarky, or for not giving him a proper goodbye.

He just leaves.

Gloomily, she tucks herself into a ball and concentrates on the the infuriatingly calm voice of the newscaster so she doesn’t have to hear Arthur assuring Dad that everything will be brilliant or the quiet, gravelly rumble of Dad’s Lexus pulling out of the drive.

For once, Arthur is quiet enough that she doesn’t know he’s there until he sinks onto the sofa beside her and the dip of the cushions presses her feet into his thighs. The newscaster’s voice is replaced with the bubbly sound effects of Saturday morning cartoons. 

“You don’t have to like being here, you know,” he says softly. “It’s all right if you don’t.”

She presses her face into the crook of her arms and squeezes her eyes shut. It’s not a small enough trick to hide anymore. Besides, it’s not fair of her, really. She _does_ like being here, likes staying with Arthur and eating junk food for breakfast and playing silly games. It’s more fun than being home, where she has to always act like she’s bigger and older and smarter than everyone else, when all she really wants to do is make a fort out of linens, hide in the broom cupboard under the stairs and pretend she’s a promising young witch just waiting for her letter to Hogwarts. 

She just wishes that being here didn’t have to mean Dad _wasn’t._

With a sigh, she unfolds herself and sits up beside Arthur. The only move he makes is to wiggle his toes in their polkadot socks against the hardwood floor. Sometimes she wonders if screaming herself hoarse would make her feel any better, wonders if there’s any merit to stomping around with a sour face so the whole world can know how horrible you feel, if there’s any sort of reward to ripping apart any little thing simply to see it fall to pieces in your hands.

After a while, she decides none of those things are worth it, because in the end, they would only make her more miserable than when she had started. The whole problem, though, is that she doesn’t know how _not_ to be miserable either, and that just makes everything horrid. Determinedly _not_ pouting, she sinks into herself and slumps sideways against Arthur’s shoulder. 

He doesn’t ask her what’s wrong. It’s one of the good things about Arthur, she thinks. He always seems to know when she doesn’t know what to say.

“Did you have breakfast yet?” he asks.

She shakes her head, rubbing her cheek into the softness of his hoodie until she can feel the hard press of his shoulder beneath.

“C’mon then,” he says, patting her knee. “Let’s go raid the pantry.”

He gets up, sliding across the floor, and skates down the hall in his socks. She can’t stop herself from smiling as she watches him go. Eventually, she pulls herself up off the sofa, makes certain she gets a running start, and skids down the hall after him. 

~*~

Breakfast is pancakes with everything in--blueberries and chocolate chips and bananas--and they set everything up like an assembly line. Miranda measures out ingredients in heaping doses, stirring them in until the batter is sweetly-purple and drops in sticky glops from the spoon. Arthur mans the hob, flipping pancakes in the fry pan with a minimum of mess--only one ends up on the floor to their delight (and Snoopadoop’s dismay) and they both do a little victory dance at setting a new, cleanlier record. 

When every last drop of batter is fried and the plates piled precariously high with pancakes, Arthur sets breakfast out on the table, whilst Miranda grabs the teas, already heartily plied with milk and sugar. It’s a bit of a production after that, seeing how many toppings they can roll into the pancakes, and then figuring out how to eat them without everything falling apart and dripping into their laps. In the end, they both decide it’s easiest just to lean over the tabletop and spear sliver-sized pieces with their forks. 

“I don’t know why anyone thinks you’re a bad cook,” she says, then pauses to catch a ribbon of syrup dripping from her fork with her tongue. “I think it’s delicious.”

“To be fair,” he replies with his mouth full. “The stuff I make in the galley is nowhere near as good as all this.”

“You should make things here, then bring them with you on trips.”

He just shrugs. “I thought of that, but Mum said no. Something about unknown substances through customs.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense then.”

“Though,” he smiles, licking syrup from his lips. “I did make a cake one time--not a very good one, because cakes aren’t supposed to be runny, but this one was _and_ it sort of smelt funny, but I made it in a cake pan so... Anyway, your dad knew the man in customs, so I got it through just fine. Though maybe I can only bring the things I cook into Finland, now that I think about it. They _did_ mention a chocolate import tax, but your dad’s always really brilliant at things like that.” The smile fades from his face and he set his fork down. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, pushing her plate away. “I’m just not hungry anymore.”

He takes a few more bites of his breakfast, then sighs and pushes his plate away as well. “Me neither,” he confesses. “Help me with the washing up?”

They disassemble everything in stages, Arthur stationed at the sink with his sleeves rolled back and Miranda beside him ready with a dishcloth for the handoff. When everything is clean again, and all the worktops and the table have been wiped down, they go back into the sitting room and sprawl out together on the sofa. When Miranda’s toes don’t quite reach the coffee table, she rests them instead on Arthur’s shins and flops back against the cushions.

“You’re angry with your dad, aren’t you?” he asks, but she knows it isn’t really a question. It’s just Arthur finding all the words she doesn’t know how to say.

She stares up at the ceiling and wriggles her heels atop his legs. 

“You shouldn’t be,” he says. “Not because you shouldn’t be angry--you can’t stop how you feel, but you can change the reason, and I think maybe you need to. He didn’t leave because he wanted to, you know.”

“Then why did he leave at all?” she snaps. She thumps her feet on his knees and feels him wince. Regretfully, she rubs at the spot with her toes in apology. When Arthur grabs her ankles and pulls her so her legs are lying across his lap, she knows she’s forgiven. 

“Because doing what you have to do even when you don’t want to is part of being a grown-up,” he says. “Because sometimes someone gives you lemons and you just need to make lemonade out of them.” He frowns. “I probably got that last bit wrong, though. That doesn’t even make sense. No one has ever just walked up and given me a lemon before--that’d be weird.”

She smiles and presses her feet against his palms until he wraps his fingers around her toes and squeezes. 

“The point is,” he continues, “your dad is brilliant and he loves you more than anything in the whole wide world, but sometimes he has to do that by being a grown-up, even if that means it’s not very much fun.”

She lifts her head from the cushions to glance at him. “Is that what your dad did?”

The smile he gives her is dim and he shakes his head. “No. That’s how I know how much your dad loves you.”

Cautiously, she pulls her feet back under her and sits up on her knees. “So...” she says slowly. “Your dad didn’t love you?”

Arthur pulls a face and frowns, thinking. “Well, no. It’s not...” He pauses, mulling over his words carefully. “It’s not that he didn’t love me,” he says finally. “It’s just... I don’t think he knew how. With anyone, really. How can I get upset with him for that, if no one ever taught him properly? It’s not a reason to get angry, it’s just sad.”

Miranda thinks it’s a bit more than sad actually. But the words get lost on their way to her tongue, so she just lets herself fall forward and collapses onto Arthur so she can wrap her arms around his neck.

“Oi!” He laughs, even as his arms curl around her. “A little warning next time, yeah?”

“If I warn you,” she says against his shoulder, “then it’s not a surprise.”

“Oh. Right. So you mean if I wanted to do this--” In a flash, he tucks his hands against her sides and wriggles them until she jumps back, shrieking. “I shouldn’t warn you first,” he finishes, grinning at her wickedly. “Otherwise, it’s not a proper surprise. Got it.”

“No,” she says, straightening as much as she’s able. “I’ve got _you!_ ”

He squawks and flinches away, already reaching for her wrists. There really isn’t very much room to make a getaway, and there’s no wiggle room at all when he uses his arm and shoulder to pin her to the cushions and attacks her feet until she’s breathless and twitching and tears are streaming down her cheeks.

“I surrender!” she shouts between giggles. “I surrender, I surrender!”

Satisfied, he sits up and puts a bit of distance between them in an unspoken truce. Even so, Miranda pulls her feet and tucks them under her thighs whilst she catches her breath. After that, they sit and flip through stations on the telly and bicker over what looks the most interesting. 

Eventually, Miranda drags herself off the sofa to get something to drink. Arthur just moves his feet out of the way and continues flipping through channels. It’s too perfect an opportunity to pass up. In gleeful retaliation, she runs her nails down the back of his neck so he hunches his shoulders. She’s already halfway down the hall by the time he can do more than swat at her with the remote, howling with laughter.

~*~

When they finally stop chasing each other around the house--lurking around corners and hiding in cupboards like spies on a mission--they’re both exhausted and starving. It’s a rather ambitious project certainly, consisting as it does of cold sandwiches and a chocolate cake which they can’t decide should be five layers or ten. (Ultimately, the compromise is the more layers the better, and Arthur fishes out the last of the baking pans.)

They set up their assembly line again and get to work. The construction of the sandwiches goes more easily and quickly than it does for the cake, which is for the best, they agree. It gives them more time to stand at the worktops and lick batter from the mixing spoons. 

They are finishing the last of the washing up when the front door opens. Snoopadoop perks up immediately, gives a delighted bark, and then scrambles down the hall. Before Miranda can follow, Arthur scoops her up off her feet and tosses her over his shoulder. 

“Hi, Mum!” he calls cheerily. When he walks, he exaggerates his gait so Miranda sways and bumps against his back.

She giggles and lets herself hang as if all of her bones have melted. “Hi, Carolyn,” she says, throwing her arm up in a limp wave. 

Carolyn simply rolls her eyes and tucks Snoopadoop under her arm so she doesn’t escape out of the still open door. “Hello, you two,” she replies, clearly unimpressed. She narrows her eyes at them after a moment, then blinks, sniffing the air surreptitiously. “Why does it smell of burnt chocolate in here?”

“Uh oh,” Arthur says. Quick as he can without dropping her, he swings Miranda down from his shoulder and sprints back to the kitchen.

“Arthur! What have you done now?”

“Nothing!” he calls. The protestation is somewhat ruined when a moment later the smoke alarms go off, echoing through the house.

“Oh, you idiot boy!”

Giggling, Miranda steps outside into the quiet, but leaves the door open as she notices smoke beginning to waft into the hall.

“Do I need to phone Fire Services?”

Dad is standing in the middle of the drive, eyeing the door warily, mobile at the ready. But there’s no need. A moment later, Arthur skids into the hall and shouts over the alarms, “It’s fine! Well, the cake’s not fine, but the kitchen is. Mostly.”

“Oh, go open the windows and turn those blasted things off!”

“Right-o!”

Miranda just grins. “Everything’s fine,” she says. 

“Apparently,” Dad replies, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile--the one that means things aren’t supposed to be funny, even if they really are.

“We didn’t burn the house down,” she adds, feeling the need to point that out.

“I’m certain Carolyn is grateful for your impressive show of restraint.” He pockets his phone and tilts his head to appraise her. “I take it the pair of you made a day of it then? You’re not even dressed.”

She rocks back and forth, feeling the sharp dig of the pavement through her socks, then shrugs. “We had more important things to do,” she explains.

“Did you?” he says, raising one eyebrow curiously. Though he tries to hide it, his smile is impossible to miss. 

All at once, she feels miserable and angry all over again, and this time all the achy bones and the too-tight skin are just for her. Maybe she can’t help how she feels, but she doesn’t think changing the reason will help this time, not for this. So she stops thinking about it and does the first thing that feels right. 

She runs across the drive and throws her arms around his waist.

He lets out a surprised breath, stumbling back and throwing out an arm to keep them both from overbalancing. “What’s all this?” he asks, hands curling around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry I was horrid and I didn’t say goodbye,” she tells him, face pressed against his jacket. “And I’m sorry you have to work and be grown-up when you don’t want to.” 

For a long moment, Dad doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, and she clings to him, burrowing into his arms because she isn’t certain she wants to see his face. Then his hands are squeezing her shoulders and he’s pushing her away. She readies herself for the scolding she should have received this morning, but instead the only thing he does is kneel and pull her into his arms. Relief floods through her, washing away all of the unhappy worry, and she throws her arms around his neck and hugs him as tightly as she can.

“I missed you, Daddy,” she tells him, fiercely. It’s the easiest thing in the world, confessing. She doesn’t know why she never has before.

“I missed you too, darling.” He gives her a squeeze and kisses her hair. “Always.”

The most important thing of all, though, is she knows it’s absolutely true.

**Author's Note:**

> Specials thanks to Linguini and Sproid for all their encouragement! Best fic support group around.


End file.
